Ligyrophobia
by PrincessIxi
Summary: Some things in life are not like puzzles, they refuse to make sense and can not be worked out with logic. Fears have been apart of Mello since childhood. Fear of losing to Near, L rejecting him and now. . . of fiery explosions. AU to post!Sayu arc.


**Title **Ligyrophobia

**Rating **R-16 for Mello swearing, general violence and mentions of suicide

**Category **Death Note, AU

**Pairing/s **MelloxNear but don't blink cus you'll miss it

**Summary **Some things in life are not like puzzles, they refuse to make sense and can not be worked out with logic. Fears have been part of Mello since childhood. Fear of losing to Near, L rejecting him and now. . . of fiery explosions. AU to post!Sayu arc.

**Author's Note **This is an **AU** to the end of the Sayu arc. Mostly in Mello's pov. I wanted to finish this in time for Mello's official Deathday. . but as you can see I'm very late, heh. I also wanted to get back in touch with my psycho FMA fictions I used to write and spread this love to the DN fandom- it's good to be back, mwhahah.

And I promise, the next DN fiction I do, Mello won't be a sobbing emotional wreck- somehow I always make him cry xp.

**Ligyrophobia is a fear of loud noises.**

Also, I love you guys for faving, but I love reviews a lot more.

**Disclaimer **I do not own Death Note, but sort of wish I do, because I would like to think I can come up with brilliant story lines too.

* * *

_!_

The impact shatters the left eye socket of the gas mask, shrapnel slicing up his face, and the buckle that straps it to the back of his head gives out, and a second explosion dislodges the entire protective mask off his face, exposing his sensitive skin to the full heat of the flames. His blonde hair burns and crackles away in places.

Mello lands on his back, spine first onto some rubble. Hot ash lands on his face. Burns. Mouth wide open in a silent scream and breathing in toxic fumes.

Everything is on fire. Not just all around him, but on him too. For the first time in years he regrets his taste in fashion. Each article of leather is searing hot, boiling him from the inside out. The clothes will not catch _on _fire, in fact they protect him, however he's having first hand experience at what a tinfoil wrapped fish must go through in the frying pan. His hands burn, and Mello tries to lift them, but all his energy has been blown away in the bomb blast. His breathes are like a frightened rabbit's. His legs are killing him. Like a taunt, his crucifix is still safely about his neck, wooden rosary breads brushing over his cheek and forehead from his awkward upside down position.

Fuck god.

His ears are ringing. The next thing he is aware of. They have popped in the explosion. . . hopefully not ruptured. His mind is a jumble of cut and connected wires, and his priorities are turned upside down. He thinks of the gas mask, and it's failed protective hold on his face. His face is stinging like a bitch. . . in fact he's lost feeling in his left side. Not good. Again he tries to twitch his leather glad hands into life, but it's just too much. Next his thoughts jump to the Death Note, and his gut clenches painfully as _that_ thought leads unfortunately onto Near. Awwww, _fuck_. He can just see the kid no-

If Mello's ears had been functioning, he would have heard the stir of toxic fumes then the _tink _of a third bomb going off. Why did he set so many up? Oh right, he's a creature of paranoia. And if memories serve corre- Mello is kicked off his back, and summersaults twice before kissing the ground once more with his backside. He makes a noise, but his ears don't pick it up. A balloon of grit and hot air pushes his body over, and now he's on his stomach, which is just peachy.

There should be two more explosions going off in about two minutes, thirty seconds apart, minor, just to finish off any survivors. Mello needs to move fast or else he won't be one of the above.

He realises he's coughing. He hadn't heard himself, and his eyes are closed against the fumes and had thought the spasms coming from his chest where just the shakes. He's in shock and it's not good because he is not moving and is soon going to be blown from here to kingdomcome.

Gently, Mello opens his eyes- no _eye,_ his left won't work properly- and sees a world of black and white and red. He blinks and a little sense seeps into the image. The red is the flames, and white is the clouds of smoke and ash and shit everywhere. Black is everything else. Going for another small movement, Mello wriggles his fingers. Success! Horribly aware of the clock ticking, Mello now moves his elbow joint, finding that in good condition too. Now that he's coming back to life, his body quickly obeys him.

Need to remove gloves.

His hands shake like he's really sitting on ice, and pain erupts in sharp pangs each time he touches his fingers and grips the tight leather. It's sticking to his skin like cello tape, god this is hopeless he needs to move or else- no. The gloves have to come off. The shit will really hit the fan if he loses both hands to third degree burns.

They come off.

Amazing what you can achieve when you don't panic.

Now to get the hell out of here. Where is here? He had been in the 'safest' corner of the room. . the blast would have shattered the wall, throwing him out with it. Ergo, he must be outside, or very close to the terrace.

The fumes are so thick, it's like candy floss is coating the obliterated hide out. Mello's black eyes run, turning red at the rims. Fire is swallowing up the building behind him and the bits scattered all around him. His fingertips have been badly scorched, severing his nerve endings. Mello doesn't feel the grass under him or the pressing heat.

He struggles up, legs burning but he sets his mouth grimly and goes with the pain. Now on all fours, Mello starts to cough again, lungs aching at all the toxins he's inhaled and trying in vain to empty it out through Mello's harsh, sobbing chokes. The detective dry reaches, but as his stomach is empty, only digestive fluids run down his chin.

The only comfort he gets is that he hears everything. Or at least his right side does. His left side has completely shut down.

Time has run out, and the third explosion knocks him back to the ground, undoing all his hard work.

Deafness once again blankets Mello, and in a daze, he feels the ground roll as the final blast goes off, tossing him a few feet forward. Like he's under water, the world starts to dim and shake as his eye unfocuses and the sounds around him are muffled, almost comforting.

He starts to lose his grip on the conscious world.

Mello fights hard, but his blinks grow heavy, and his body literally melts like chocolate, soaking into the grass around him. He's really fucked up this time. No Death Note, real name revealed, all his allies dead around him, hide out gone, almost blown himself up, he's lost to Near, no rescue in sight. The last- last two rather- completely shatter his countenance.

If he wasn't about to pass out, he'd be bawling his eyes out- but that could just be the smoke irritating his eyes.

The last thought he has is that there really is nobody out there to come to his aid now.

* * *

"Near. . _Near_ wake up."

Rough hands shaking his shoulders.

"Nrg. . .nh!"

Near's head snaps up, quite sure he had been awake a second ago. He rubs at his eyes with the back of his knuckles, the soft, duckling fluffy material of his pyjama cuffs brush familiarly against his skin. Near drags his fingertips down his cheeks in an effort to shake himself awake, and he finds groves, evidence of where his head had been resting only moments ago. And. . ah. Saliva to. Hm, he must have been drooling on the key board. At least it was only Hal who had found him in that rather embarrassing position. At a glance at the computer screen before him, Near can see ten pages of garbled nonsense that his cheek has typed out.

"Sorry. What did you say?"

"I was saying about the four places we had pegged as Mello's hideout. Seems that someone has done the kindness of narrowing it down from four to one. One was attacked and blown up about half an hour ago- we assume by L and the Japanese Police force. Also, please remember Near we do have sleeping facilities here and it would put my mind at ease to know you use them from time to time," Hal adds with a concerned frown.

"Are there any survivors?" Near asks, ignoring the rest of her sentence.

"We've yet to personally go down and sweep the area, although. . ."

Near stares at the computer screen, as if the random letters before him will suddenly transform into inspiration. "I see. However that is not why you woke me up."

"Well you did ask to be inform when we found the gangster's hide out . . but your right. I could have easily of told you this in the morning. It's- well. I hope I'm not being unorthodox in implying this but Mello might have survived. Our cameras, or at least the ones that haven't been damaged in the blast, have picked up on him. He's been outside, unmoving all this time."

The teenage prodigy can see where this is leading.

* * *

Mello awakes, half blind, half deaf, nerve endings frayed.

He's being held down, and he panics and thrashes about expecting hands to grasp at him and suffocate him- until he realises it's simply white sheets holding him in place. A bed?

Mello opens his right eye wide rolling it up and down, side to side in its socket, trying to work out why his left is not doing the same. He takes in the room; almost everything is white and sterile. He moves his head left and right, and when his blonde hair doesn't fall with him, Mello guesses his left side is strapped up with white bandages. His body is numb. He must be brimming with pain killers.

Breath hard and fast, the sound is odd and loud in his only functioning ear. At last, Mello grows aware he isn't alone in the bed. He surrounded by hundreds of toy robots, rubber duckies, packets of die, stuffed animals some human and wow that's super creepy there is a finger puppet of himself.

"Gwah, ah.. ah!"

Startled at first, the hoarse yell grows into a violent smokers cough. Mello ends up bent double, groaning with his chin to the bed sheets. Oh Jesus. . .

"Good morning, Mello."

"Ah!"

He hadn't even seen- heard- the pale boy come into the room. Every sound is muffled and dead, the only sounds he ca hear is what is right in front of him. Near clears a space on the bed- shuffling a silver android looking model, a classic Beast Wars character and a giant stuffed bunny over- and sits down. Mello tries to draw his legs away from him, but finds he's too weak to do even that. He settles on glaring at him.

"Both ear drums ruptured, left worst than right. Fifteen percent chance of going deaf. Third degree burns to the left side of your face and down your chest and back. First degree nearly everywhere else. Lungs are coated in ash and clogged up with everything else. There is a seventy percent chance you will be blind in your left eye. Your hair is the only thing that got off lightly. Recovery time, estimated to be around a month. This is excluding your emotional recovery however."

Even with all the preparation of _knowing_ the news will be shit, Mello's chest still pulls in sharply at hearing the words. He might be going half blind _and _deaf? That frightens him more than anything else. Mello takes in a harsh breath, puffing up to yell himself stupid at Near, but hardly get's passed the first word before he starts hacking again.

Near is watching the whole display with little interest, idly playing with his hair and picking up a yellow duck with his other hand. _Don't count your fluffy duckies until they hatch_.

"D-do- _ehrm_- do you have to be so-so bloody _matter of fact_ about everything," Mello recovers enough to wheeze his feelings out. Near stares blankly out him, like Mello is speaking an alien language. The blonde sighs, forcing himself to relax back into the pillows, because he can feel his burnt skin pulling tight under the loose bandages. Getting pissed off solves nothing. And what is he expecting. . _pity_ from Near? Understanding, him caring? Pfft. Mello looks away, annoyed with himself.

"Accidents happen. You will recover," Near shrugs like Mello has only broken a nail while tripping down the stairs.

"Fan-fucking-tastic, doctor," Mello wishes he has the strength to ram that stupid duck down Near's throat. He doesn't want to, but Mello feels incredibly hard done by, not to mention _sorry_ for himself. He's been blown up, told he might be handicapped for life, fucking _lost _everything he's worked so hard to get and is now being looked down upon by marble carved Near who doesn't give a toss about his situation. Is it too much to ask for some TLC? "If you have nothing nice to say, go away, Near."

Near stops corkscrewing his hair strands, nailing Mello with a disgruntled look. "_I'm _the one being rude?"

"Yes," Mello discovers his lips are blistered and caped when he tries to stick out his lower one.

"Fine. I'll leave you alone and come back when you're in a better frame of mind," Near says, infuriating Mello further who didn't expect Near to comply that easily. The exgangster catches himself from calling the teenager back, whose white body is cut off from view as the electronic doors clap together.

* * *

The next time Mello slips back into the conscious world, he wakes up coughing. It's so bad, his entire body heaves and shakes until he falls from the bed, bringing hard toys and pillows with him. On impact, his entire body flames into life, painkillers having worn off twenty minutes ago.

Time is something like mist, Mello can't grasp it or see it. Hours, even days could have passed since he has first come here, his stomach tells him that much.

Somebody hoists his trembling body up, and drags him into the unsuite.

Head held over the white basin, Mello coughs and vomits, or at least tries too. All that comes up is black saliva and stomach acid. Mello isn't sure if the bathroom is completely painted and tiled white, or his only eye is playing up on him. Everything is so bright and harsh. His body aches, but he's hardly moved at all and his head swims like he's a kid again and is being spun from his ankles by L. The thought of spinning makes his empty stomach flip unpleasantly.

Coughing weakly, Mello finds his individually wrapped up fingers clutching the sides of the basin, that and the arms around him keep him upright and not falling face first into his own mess. Yuck. Cold water jets from the taps and spray patters onto his burn raw cheek. Mello can tell from the familiar white cuffed hand that adjusts the water pressure that it's Near doing this out of character act of charity.

Hair strands tug out of the corners of his mouth and off his face as Near pulls his over grown hair back, obviously thinking Mello will throw up again. But the random spasms have stopped. They stay like that until Mello's breathe stops sounding so painful and he doesn't shiver like he's been thrown into a bucket of ice.

Mello clears his throat.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Peachy."

"You need to get back into bed."

"Uum, don't think I can move."

"Okay," Near lets his blonde hair fall back into place, removing the arm that's been around Mello's chest the entire time, and instead rests his fingertips on Mello's shoulders in case the older will keel back over without some stability. "Take your time."

Grateful, Mello pushes himself up with his hands, taking a tiny step backwards and into Near, wincing as his bandaged feet give a nasty pulse. Even his feet haven't managed to get away unscathed from the lick of the deadly flames. Now with his back up against the young detective he's unable to lower himself down, but somehow the unspoken want get's through to Near, who folds him down to the ground and into an untidy sitting position. "Can you run a cold bath for me?" Mello asks, head drooping until his chin bumps into his chest. "My skin is itching like crazy."

"Your painkillers must have worn off, I'll go get some more," Near sighs, and the warmth of his pyjamas leave and the coldness of the bath tub sides replaces it. Despite now being inside the desired tub, Near doesn't put the water on for him. "Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone."

He does something stupid.

The silver tap with the universal blue marks that indicate cold, squeal, as Mello turns it on, pumping water out. The sound of the water hitting the tub bottom is like a dull thud to Mello's visible ear, and he rocks his head back on his shoulders, letting his cheek touch the tiled wall. Slowly, the cold water trickles towards him, staining his white pyjama bottoms- Mello notices them for the first time, recognising them as a pair of Nears- his bandaged feet soak through, and oh Jesus _yes _it feels like bliss to his throbbing body. His tattered lips part, and his one ebony eye slides shut as the tub sloshes with icy water, lapping at his flaming skin before freezing it. Mello's bandages grow heavy, some even unravelling.

The water continues to rise.

It climbs and settled over his chest like some sort of watery cat, pressing against his tender ribcage until it tickles and threatens to spasm into coughs again. Mello twitches, opening his eye and watches the water run waterfalls over the sides.

Near is going to kill him, he thinks, actually cracking a smile for the first time in _weeks_.

His eye falls like its weight down by an anvil, and a flicker of panic spikes through his stomach. His eye won't open. In fact. . . his entire body has gone into screen saver mode. He tries to wriggle a finger- small movements, build yourself up Mello- but his body is either so numb he can't tell if it's obeyed, or the water is sapping all his energy.

Shit.

He plunges into the darkness of himself for only a second, because hands grab him back out, the yells are hard to make out, like someone is pressing a pillow against his ears. Thankfully, his eye flutters open at all the movement around him.

"Son of a _bitch_! Near, we've got trouble."

Which is a really odd thing for the white haired boy to say, as he is right in front of him, yanking him out and onto the wet tiles. Mello coughs out water. He must have gone under at some stage. The concerned face of Near hovers above him, a head set resting in his hair and mouth piece touching his lips. "Mello? Mello, honey, are you okay?"

Which is also a really odd thing for him to say.

"Near. . you're not making any sense."

"Oh good god. I think he's hallucinating. Sweetie, come on, focus on my face," Near says, said face a mixture of bemusement and worry. The sharp lights of the bathroom behind Near aluminates his messy hair, and for a second it glows golden and long like his own. Mello is propped up, water running into his lashes, and he blinks, trying to do as Near says and refocus his eye, keep it from dimming and wondering aimlessly. "It's me, Hal."

"Don't be stupid," Mello mutters, at last his eye dilates and he rolls it to look at Near. His pale face does not waver to the female officer he claims to be.

Near hides a sigh, then shifts his hands until one is behind Mello's neck, and the other under his knees. He lifts him up in one quick movement, showing no strain despite being half a foot shorter and weighing a hell of a lot less than Mello. "He thinks that I'm you," Near says, speaking into the mouth piece, making Mello frown. A tinny voice replies _why am I not surprised_.

He isn't losing his marbles, he _knows _this is Near.

"I leave you alone for five minutes, and you manage to almost kill yourself," he's deposited on the bed, but not yet tucked in. Blankets, towels, bandages and a new set of pyjamas are next to be put down, joining the toys. Both boys eye each other up, and before Mello can stop him- like he could in his almost vegetable state- Near grabs the hem of his pyjama pants and pulls them down with practised ease.

"Hey!"

Near shoves his protesting head back down. "Oh stop being such a baby. Who do you think dressed you when you first came here? The men don't care about you, and Near can hardly look after himself," the thick, soppy bandages come off his legs. Taking care of the ugly burn marks, Near uses a patting motion to dry his legs as best he can with the towels. His leather has protected his legs from third degree, so the minor scarring will fade. What Mello finds rather interesting is that all his leg hair has been burnt off. If he'd unstrapped his arms, he would have found the same thing had happened there to.

Somewhat drier, he's helped into his fresh pants, and next his other damp bandages come off, his arms and torso. To each body part, a cooling, semi clear gel is smeared over his burns before being losing wrapped up once more. Near leaves his face well alone.

"This time, _stay put_," the detective frowns, tugging at the sheets and blankets and covers the shivering Mello up, rearranging a few of the toys, and replacing the harder ones with stuffed ones. He pulls out a needle and breaks the skin of his neck, injecting powerful painkillers and sleeping drugs directly into his blood stream. Forty seconds till lights out. Near starts to count backwards, turning away and pocketing the needle.

"Wait. ." his mouth moves before his brain can stop himself. With a spurt of energy, Mello grabs hold of the back of Near's top before he can get out of range.

Near glances back. He removes the clutching fingers, putting Mellos arms by his sides so they won't cramp up when he's knocked out. In a motherly gesture, Near brushes back the tuffs of blonde hair that have escaped the wrappings, trailing his finger tips over Mello's eyes until they quietly close, a peaceful smile about his lips as the first wave of drugs filters throughout his body.

* * *

There are no windows in the room, the only light is artificial, coming from the ceiling. So the morning sun through ripped and cobweb stained curtains does not rouse him like it does every other morning. Or- is it morning? The smell of something inviting is what prods Mello awake for the third time that. . it can't possibly be day, can it?

In his induced sleep, he's managed to roll over to his right side. As his good eye opens, the first thing he sees is Near's left sock. He's pulled up a roller chair and has obviously been waiting for him to wake up. He's done the nicety of removing the toys off the bed. They now lie on the floor, but with nothing to do with his hands, one is drumming on his propped up knee, the other in his hair. The bed side table is the source of the yummy smell.

Mello sniffs eagerly. If he had a tail, it would be thumping.

"Rest assure, I am the real Near."

Oh.

Yeah. Fuck.

Thoughts of food vanish when Mello is reminded of yesterday- no, a few hours before, or maybe. . well the last time he was awake. Now that he's almost 60 percent _mentally _recovered, he realises how _stupid _he must have been acting. Good lord, how could he mistake Hal for Near? Now he thinks back, he must have really been out of it to make that assumption when he clearly remembers her long, painted nails catching over his skin where she'd rubbed gel, her motherly glare at his irresponsible actions and the smell of her strong shampoo and perfume.

Mello has no witty come back to make, he can't exactly _deny_ it, so coughs deliberately to hide his heating up face- but as his cheeks are burnt it's a wasted distraction.

"Lidner has also done you the kindness of taping your hands up. Just to make sure you don't cause yourself further harm."

Eye widening, Mello struggles to pull one of his hands to the surface- someone had tucked them under the blankets- and upon revealing it, it resembles a crude hand a child made snowman possesses. "I- this- how am I supposed to eat?!" Mello can't help the wail that bubbles up.

But as soon as he says it, he knows the answer. Mello glances sharply at Near, whose smiling like a cheeky monkey. Oh, damn him, and damn Hal. Refusing to break the silence or put a bullet hole into his ego, Mello purses his flaking lips. Near sighs tragically. Disbelievingly, Mello realises that Near is _enjoying _himself. The sick, manipulative little bastard likes the fact he's making Mello ten different kinds of uncomfortable. He always was a childish brat.

"Well that's a shame. Guess the waffles will go to waste then."

Oh, but they smelt so good, and his stomach is crying at the thought of being denied. No. Damnit this is just another test, a fucking _game _of Near's to prove who holds all the power. His pride can't suffer any more hits than it has taken as of late. "Fuck you, Near," Mello growls, pleased he still has _some_ control over the situation.

This doesn't faze Near- nothing much does- and he leans over to the bed side table, right where the wooden sides touch the wall and the only part of the surface Mello can't see, pillow obscuring his vision. There's a tiny _pop_ of a bottle cap being removed, and Mello's expert nose picks up the very familiar scent of chocolate. That cheating fucker!

Okay, so his mouth may be slightly watering as Near waggles the manufactured bottle of chocolate sauce in front of him but he is _not _giving in to such a low blow. . . . uum, no matter how much he really really wants to.

Chocolate to him is like smokes and drugs to others, or like apples to a certain death God. Already Mello can feel the withdrawal symptoms of not having a bar of it in his hands for such a long period of time. Curse his Achilles heel.

Teeth clamped together, Mello stubbornly stays fast in his resolve.

Still holding a few cards up his sleeve, Near squeezes a dab of chocolate out onto his index finger reaching it out to Mello's face. It is impossible to ignore the alluring smell now with it right under his nose. Mello knows- had known from the start really- that simply force feeding him isn't on Near's mind. He wants Mello to ask- heck _beg_- for it, like some twisted form of punishment that Mello has yet to work out the motive for. Apart from the whole hating his guts and standing in his way all the time thing.

It takes an effort, but Mello turns his face away, towards Near and gives him a stare of stone.

Still sure of himself, Near doesn't even frown at Mello's disobedient behaviour, instead removes his hand and licks the chocolate off his finger. Mello watches him uncertainly, as a lion does when a hyena moves towards its catch. Near puts the bottle mouth on his lower lip, applying pressure to the plastic sides.

Funny how this is the thing that makes him snap.

Horrified that Near _dares _to think of downing his chocolate in front of him, Mello launches himself at the boy, acting on impulse.

He manages to forget he's sitting on a wheely chair.

Crazily, the chair lurches as Mello upper body lands on Near's lap and knee- he has also forgotten he is fingerless so the grabbing of Near's hands has failed miserably- then tips forward and the back wheels fly up into the air and they both land in a messy heap on the hard ground. There's a crunching sound as a few toys get squashed on and a loud clatter as the plastic of the chair smacks to the floor and the soft thump of the cushioned head hitting Near's back.

Mello is still half in the bed, half off it, legs trapped in the sheets, face and chest somewhere on an unknown part of Near, but thinks he must be close to his face as he can feel his hair touching softly over his exposed skin as he moves about groggily and hears the strong pulse of his heart.

". . . ow. . ."

Mello moves his feet, trying to kick the restricting sheets off, and it ends up being a bad move because now he's totally on the ground, body singing with pain. A sharp joint of a robot is jabbing into his hip bone.

"Mello, please get off me," Near's voice strains in his ear, and that is what he's been trying to _do_ for the last minute or so, but his club like hands are making things hard. Near finally finds both his arms in the tangle of limbs, takes hold of Mello's biceps and pushes his upper body off of him. Now his face isn't stuck in a permanent face plant, Mello notices that the both of them are dosed in chocolate. Near must have squeezed the bottle in panic when Mello had made his wild attack.

"Pffft," it really is pretty funny.

Near pouts in an annoyed way. Throughout his white hair are thick streaks of brown, his face covered in splatters and even his top hasn't escaped from it. Mello thinks he must look just as bad. Bottle in question has rolled away, hiding under the side table, knowing it's done something bad.

"Seems a shame to waste it," Mello smirks, and Near's expression changes slightly.

"Mello, don't be disgusting."

Too bad, you had it coming you little shit, Mello thinks with a glare. His stomach is cramping and he's so hungry he'd lick chocolate off a bloody toilet seat if the situation called for it. "That's a bit rich, coming from the boy who wanted me to beg like a dog only seconds ago."

"I never _said_ that. Mello is simply making assumptions."

"Wh-what?" Mello growls, suddenly realising Near has managed to flip the situation back on him, making _him_ the one to be angry and flustered when it should be the other way around.

Well, if he can't bet the boy in a battle of wits, actions are defiantly his forte. The detective stays quiet, eyes big and black- not out of nerves but out of innocent fascination- as Mello pokes his tongue out and leaning in close, by passes the very tempting chocolate, whispers into his ear- "Just kidding. Don't get too excited now."

* * *

Mello is slowly weaned off his drugs, or at least the strong knock out ones.

But without the injections, he starts to dream. Dream terrible, frightening things. Of the ground spilling open, letting out the fires of hell that spit over his body, and melt at his face. Of explosions that shake him to his bones. Things that take his eyes out, so he's surrounded by blackness, or nothingness, and his ears will fail and he's left struggling like a little worm. And sometimes the sky falls down around him, pinning him flat, suffocating him, and no matter how much he squirms and cries it is relenting. And always, the fire, fire_ fire_.

Each time he dreams, he wakes up screaming and crying, thrashing and trying to pull his hair out by their blonde roots.

Normally Hal is there beside him, pushing his arms down until he calms and stops moving, then uses a damp cloth to relieve his sweating face and hot tears, words of comfort sweet melodies to his ears. Sometimes, if it's really bad, if he wakes up confuses and disorientated, swearing the demons of his dreams have crossed the fantasy world to the living one, he overpowers Hal mistaking her for a black horned hellchild and that is when Rester will come in.

Near is never there. Very rarely he comes to visit, and Mello can imagine the small detective is watching his wild tantrums on a humming computer screen. Taking it in, analysing, understanding. .

Many of his bandages have come off now, the only ones left are on his face and chest, where the worst of the damage is. Just yesterday, his hands have been ticked off as okay. His skin has stopped aching and itching and his hearing is on the mend. Sometimes he can hear the soft _whoosh _of the sliding doors opening to his room. Birds singing outside. He can also walk on his own, and is now though roughly bored with his confinement.

However, with the threat of the night, Mello is more than happy to prolong sleep at any cost. His only eye is dead looking, gouged at by an icecream scooper and has left a black gap in its place. He has never been an insomniac, not like L or Near, and he doesn't do a very good job of trying to be one either.

Tonight is especially bad. Sleep just can't be shrugged off. It's like death- always coming after you. His dreams never follow a tangible train of thought, like a plot in a book, it's more like images and rushes of sound and colour. He can feel the heat of the flames, and the scratch of bricks around him, the drip of sweat and something else running down his cheeks, hear the howl of wind and the distant_ boom boom_ of explosions on a battle field. The safe, familiar weight of his crucifix is gone. Then the flames personify, little hands grabbing at him, dragging him down, down, touching over his face and plunging into his left eye socket. Mello tries to choke down his screams of pain and terror, but his mouth opens and fire gushes down his throat, burning him from the inside out.

There is childish laughter in his ears, reminding him of his days in Wammy's House. The dream blossoms at his train of thought, and the fiery image of L appears, as the flames lick and tumble, it's like his flesh is alive and wriggling as a thousand maggots do. His black, doll eyes stare at him and it's the first time in years since Mello has dreamt of L.

Disappointment rolls off of the detective.

Mello wakes with a cry, still thinking he is dreaming as the room is black like his only eye has been ripped out. The bed covers have fallen off, and his pillow has managed to somehow get to the opposite end of where it's supposed to be. He's back is hot with sweat and frightened tears drip from his cheeks to the bed sheets.

Fingers touch his forehead, and Mello stops quaking. "Hal?"

Realising it's only dark because it is night, Mello's eye adjusts, and he stares up at the human silhouette. Messy, spiky hair and big black eyes, and Mello's heart squeezes in terror because his mind is still on L. Then he realises the spikes are softer curls, and that when people are dead in the ground, they _stay_ that way.

"N-Near?" he hates the way his voice shakes like a phone on vibrate, but he wants nothing more than to sob and clutch at the boy and be told it's going to be okay.

"I was staying up to do some work on the case when I heard you screaming- no not on the monitor, through the door. Everyone else is asleep," Near says in ways of explanation.

Mello sniffs, feeling slightly mortified at his behaviour- he's twenty one for god's sake!- using the back of his hand to wipe his face. His fingers collides into Near's who still hasn't lifted them away. Unmoving, unsure if this is a signal for something to happen, or if they should continue on as if nothing was silently suggested.

Near clears his throat, first to take his hand away, and he turns on the bedside light. Mello covers his face, literally blinded.

"Here, I made this," he doesn't say _for you_, so Mello guesses Near was going to drink it to keep himself awake. Mello sits up, drawing his knees to his chest in imitation of his idol, taking the hot drink and smelling it.

"I didn't know you liked chocolate," he says, voice a little hoarse from all the yelling he's been doing lately. He's surprised at how fast he has calmed down. But talking to Near, being around him. . it's like someone is injecting a different kind of drug into him, something peaceful. Near is so emotionless, it rubs off on Mello. Or maybe because Near is simply not addressing the problem at hand, that makes him forget about it.

"Oh, I have it from time to time," Near says dully, perching on the bed, close to Mello's feet. He holds something else in his hands. A small wooden box. Mello doesn't want the subject to drop, interested.

"Why is that?"

"It reminds me of you."

Rather slap stick, Mello blows an overly exaggerated breath that sprays the chocolate milk up into his face. "That's ridiculous."

"You wanted to know why, so I'm being honest with you," Near says, a hint of a childish pout about his lips and he strokes a clump of white hair between two fingers, before spinning it round and round. "Why is it so ridiculous?"

"Be-because," Mello struggles to find the right answer. Because it was so embarrassing, why was Near so blunt about everything? "It just is, okay? It's like how girls keep clippings of their lover's hair in a locket, or whatever. It's not like I play with puzzles."

"Mello doesn't like me, so why even think that way?"

"Shut up, I was just giving an example, stupid," Mello snaps, taking a calming sip of the drink and feels his chest heat up snugly as melted chocolate, milk and sugar drips down into him. The sugar makes him wake up a little more. "Eh, Near. So does that mean you like me?"

Near gives him a look like he's looking at a silly child. "Of course, when have I given you reason to think otherwise?"

Touché.

"I wouldn't say dislike, but. . ." Mello trails off, finishing his sentence in his head. It was more like he thought Near was constantly looking down on him, thinking he was better, never playing with him or the other children at Wammy's. Then he thinks to Near's parting words of agreeing to work with him, and maybe that wasn't the case _at all._ Near wanting to get along with him, simply wanting a friend because all Mello remembers is the white little boy all alone in the common room with his puzzles, meaning the blame is being shouldered onto _him_, being stubborn and childish about _everything_, and Mello doesn't like that idea at _all_.

Sensing his discomfort, Near steers the conversation away and into safer waters. "I thought we could do this while we wait for the sun to come back up."

And, typical Near, he dumps the wooden box and a shower of white puzzle pieces fall to the equally white bed sheets. Mello can't help the fond smile that grows. "Honestly, I don't know how you can stand these. It's _white_ what's the point if you don't see the picture that's forming?"

Near has already locked three pieces together. He glances up at Mello, eyes flickering in the light before him. "A puzzle is a physical way to show that all other intangible puzzles in life _can _be solved. As to why it's white, well, once you solve a puzzle, the next step is to think of what comes next- a blank canvas to draw out your plans."

Mello quietly finishes his drink, watching Near work, still not understanding how he can see connections in the white tiles- they all look the same to him.

He puts his empty mug on the side table, then leans over to help him. He's not as good as genius Near, but he manages to join a few clumps to the larger picture, and in comfortable silence, they finish the master piece. The white cardboard square glows golden in the lamp light.

"So. . what comes next?" Near muses out loud, sitting back and staring unblinkingly at Mello.

Slowly, Mello puts his pointing finger into his mouth, biting down onto the pad of it. The brittle, still tender flesh breaks and he draws blood. He begins to write a single word onto the puzzle.

**DEATH**

* * *

The odd night visits become like a cult ritual.

Near must have told Hal, for she doesn't appear by his bedside nearly as often as he does. And it's very. . . normal. It is an almost _could have been_ at Wammy's House, if Mello hadn't fought so hard to be better and pulled his head in and saw Near as an equal kind of _could have been_.

Oh, but Mello is still Mello, sometimes snapping at Near, firing up at his snarky little comments and making some of his own right back just because he can and it makes things _normal_ normal, not domestic at all.

Near will always come in after a nightmare, not before, and sometimes he won't come in at all because Mello will simply dream of nothing and won't wake up sobbing like every other night. Sometimes, but very rarely, all it takes is to wake up and see Near's ghostly form beside him and he will simply roll right back over, wet cheeked, and spends the next few hours dreaming of white tiles and coils of chains until the sun comes up. Other times, he will be more difficult to handle, a skittery puppy that continues to bite his masters hand and bark at any noise that goes past the gate. Near will have to take hold of him, Mello thrashing as a fish does when it knows it's caught and about to be hit over the head on a nearby rock, and murmurs nonsense and rhymes into his ear until he stops clawing and pushing and hugs hopelessly back, eyes terrified. A lot of the time Near is simply too small to overpower him, and they end up on the floor, rolling under the bed or him being dragged down _onto_ the bed and nearly being strangled by the ropey sheets that tangle about in Mello's fits.

And the norm is them sitting up late waiting for the sun, another one of Near's impossible puzzles out before them on the bed, sometimes in silence, but more often than not, talking to keep the demons back in the shadows and out of the light they create together.

What they talk about is really anything. It can range from what they're doing at that moment, Wammy's House, England versus the dull reality of Japan, Near trying to over analyse Mello's dreams, Mello griping about the lack of chocolate, and lately, the Kira case.

Mello is delighted to discover he knows something that Near does not.

Sometimes he really does wonder what could have happened if he had swallowed his pride and agreed to working together with Near. But. . .

He and Near are not supposed to fit, Mello stays fast to this idea.

* * *

The nightmares are simply something Mello must learn to live with. Only after weeks of going through something traumatic. . . he can at least say he isn't being a poofter about it. In time he'll "get over it" and he's feel stupid for about a month and possible hit himself a few times for letting Near see him act like a sniffling child. And there have definately been times Mello thinks of water rising above his head, or taking a razor from the bathroom cabinet and cut- a lot of the time he just doesn't think at all.

In fact he is having a descent night's sleep, so it's not the night terrors that wake him this time. A tremendous boom is what does the job, sending his heart out of tempo and he flings himself out of bed without a second thought. He hears crashing rain on the slatted roof above, the rattle of the wind against the walls and another ominous rumble of thunder.

Come on, it's just a stupid storm, Mello tries to get a hold of himself, but his legs march him to the sliding doors. They open silently. The corridor beyond is dark, and terrifying, and suddenly he's a little kid at Wammy's, tears in his eyes and sprinting down the boys dormitory to seek out L and safety while chaos happens outside.

The second boom is enough to push Mello into action.

He flies down the corridor, almost skidding on the tiles in his haste, and scurries into the computer suite. The hunched over figure of Near never stood a chance. This time the chair is bolted to the ground, so the only think rocking is Near while Mello tries to bury himself under his clothes and skin.

"Mello, what on earth?"

Oh, the stupid moron has headphones on.

Mello rips them off, just in time to catch the echoing _boom_ of thunder, and it holds for a good five seconds, rumbling like a fat cat. Mello cowers while Near glances around curiously. "It's just a thunder st-"

"Shut up, shut up!" Mello cries, _fully_ aware of what it is how minor and pathetic it is, but he just can't help it. Those deep rumbles and crashes are so very much like. . . he can't even finish the sentence in his head, because if he does, it makes it final, no crossing back. Admitting his night terrors _can_ break the barrier into real life.

Mello glances up at Near, who is politely waiting for him to do- something.

Through the pause between lightning and thunder, Mello notices he's still technically on the ground, leaning up on his knees, arms locked around Near and face pressed into his stomach. He really does not want to move right now.

"They're not explosions, Mello."

"I know, I fucking _know _that, _okay?!_" Mello says, teeth clenched so hard he swears they push lower into his gums. "It's just, really-_really_ hard. Some things in life, like fears, especially those of the irrelevant kind, just can't be explained, Near."

It's either the tone he uses, the kind that he saves only for when talking to mob members or when Near _really_ pisses him off, or the choice of language, or maybe even the honesty in his words, that keeps Near's opinions to himself.

"I'm not going to be okay, am I?"

It comes out small, and oh so very tiny.

Ashamed, Mello scrunches his eyes shut, feels the tight pull of his other badly scarred one doing the same under the white wrappings. Finger's pet and part at his hair, and Mello starts to cry, silently letting all his misery out in two hot tracks, one being absorbed by the bandages, the other into Near's bunched up pyjama top.

"For someone who shows so much emotion, you hold a lot of it in. It's okay to be scared."

He didn't want to look up, but he finds himself doing just that, eyes round at Near's choice of words. Now he's moved, Near's hand slips from his head to the back of his neck. He certainly scared now, with the thunder all around them and making Near lean down further, hunchback growing, and he doesn't know if he repeats Near's name when the electrical storm or maybe a rat that has chewed a wire cuts the power turning all the computer screens off and plunging them into frightful darkness and it's either that or he's gone into shock as he experimentally touches his lips to Nears, trying desperately to find an answer to some question he didn't realise was there.

Is it a physical thanks, or a comfort thing of is he just pathetically making up excuses?

Mello draws in a sharp breath nose bumping awkwardly against Near's when the blackness hits-flames bursting from his eyes sockets heat making the jelly explode and leaving him in the dark abyss- and the hard drives behind Near make a simultaneous groan of having lost data.

He feels Near nuzzling against him, making soft _shh shh _sounds, then his breath and lips on his right eye- and it startles Mello, not the actions but how Near _knows_ what's troubling him, then thinks to the hidden cameras and him trying to understand his dreams during their late night chats and it all makes sense. Near probably knows him better than he does anyway.

"It's okay."

The thing is,_ what _is okay?

* * *

When his bandages come off the next day, Mello sits himself on the ground, and obsesses over his face in a loaned hand mirror. He isn't vain, but he's always liked to keep himself looking good. Now with his choppy hair style and Frankenstein face, Mello isn't sure what to think. It is some kind of cruel sign from God that he has to walk around with the mark of a sinner from now on?

At least he has beaten the odds Near has given him at going blind. Although the young detective is a bit of a liar. .

Like how Near compulsively twirls his hair, Mello continuously touches his face, fingertips growing used to the familiar smoothness before it's interrupted by the cracked and sand paper rough textures and dips and bumps that didn't used to be there and the spider webs of half healed scar tissue.

"It's not ugly, you know," Near says from what Mello now calls _his_ bed and not SPK's. Showing no interest as always, Near is on his back, playing with a fighter jet, making it fly and loopdiloop above his head.

"Look who's talking," Mello mutters, knowing full well that Near doesn't give a diddlysquat about his own appearance, let alone anybody else's. The nose of the jet jabs into his neck. Near has thrown it at him. "Ouch!"

"You will find in the top dresser draw, a set of fresh clothes as well as some old ones Rester was nice enough to find in the hideout for you. You're free to leave any time now."

As described, Mello pulls the draw up in its socket as it is always slightly jammed, then out, and he finds folded up leather pants, vest and gloves, and boots made for kicking people's faces in. The only splash of colour is a red jacket with a trim of white fur. A familiar looking crucifix is a sleeping snake on the hoody. Mello can't believe it survived the explosion.

"I dunno if I like leather anymore," he laughs, flapping out the pants with a wire smile. Something pokes out from one of the pockets.

"Shame," is what he thinks he hears, but Near is too engrossed in a vicious air battle with another jet plane and rubber pelican and he is too fascinated- maybe he should be disgusted at how it fascinates him- with the gun that clatters from the pants to the bottom of the drawer.

Has- has Near planted this weapon _on purpose_?

He glances over his shoulder, but the kid is still innocently playing with the objects in his hands. Gingerly, Mello picks up the handgun, noticing its brand- a Browning, not a personal favourite but very nice to look at- and its grip it scarily comforting, like a firm handshake.

Cracking it open, he notes it's fully loaded and why is that exactly?

"Near?"

"Hm-hmm?"

And maybe Near really hasn't been mucking around with his toys, and has been watching him intently all this time.

The click of the safety comes off, and Mello walks closer to Near, who still reclines on his back, but props himself up slightly, eyes touching over the barrel of the gun, then up into his own black ones. "Do you plan on killing me, Mello?" he asks, hands know where near his hair this time. And-and he could kill Near, couldn't he? Neither Hal or Gevanni are here, and Rester probably isn't watching the monitors or he would be in here already. Here is his golden chance, to pump Near full of lead, the boy who's been standing in his way since _birth_- which is a slight exaggeration but sometimes it feels that way. As a child, when he would pull at Near's white mess of hair, trip him over or spitefully punt balls at his back just to vent some of his rage at _always_ coming in second, Near _always_ getting the attention at being so _perfect_ all the fucking time. When he got older and tall enough to stand on his tiptoes and reach for the rack of knifes on the kitchen table- well he'd certainly learnt his lesson when L discovered the cuts to Near's arms and face.

Now with the gun, the perfect killing tool, Near still has the same expression from back then, when he'd come at him with knifes, or scissors or rocks. The blank look of someone accepting his fate. And it frustrates Mello, _he _has the gun, _he _has the power, and each time he has jabbed at gun at somebody else's head they flinch, cry even beg. Why does Near look so _unbothered _about it? Maybe he secretly knows that Mello won't pull the trigger.

Maybe the gun shouldn't even be pointed at Near in the first place.

Mello flicks the gun, until it points up, and he places it inside his mouth, the taste of steel flooding his senses. Just for a second, he can feel his finger tighten until the trigger clicks down and **bang** the tool in his hand explodes into life, blowing up through the roof of his mouth and head and staining the perfectly white tiles a dirty, dripping red. And the face of Near, composed as ever, no doubt grinning viciously and twirling a hair strand as his body crumples. Willing to implode his brains than face the outside world, his demons, and be played by Near?

Mello shakes his head, clearing the dark images.

He removes the gun. Safety comes back on.

"What are you doing, Mello?"

"I don't know anymore."

* * *

The sunlight is so weird to his eyes and skin, Mello almost dives back inside to hide from it.

Instead he takes a deep breath, chocolate bar like a security blanket in his jacket pocket and gun in the other, and trots down the steps of the SPK building. When he hits the road, he turns around, peering up with shaded eyes. The windows are tinted, impossible to tell which floor Near is on, let alone if the kid is sending him off. Somehow he doubts it anyway.

Mello flicks out a pair of sunglasses, jamming them onto his nose.

"Mello."

He jumps a foot into the air, spinning around on the spot, trying to find the owner of the voice. Logic comes knocking, reminding him he hasn't gotten this far in life without it. He takes his shades off, inspecting the joints that curve around his ears- and there- a tiny speaker has been planted on it. Mello puts them back on.

"Well done. No, this isn't a two way device. Just listen, Mello."

So he listens.

And at the end of it all, a number is given, then the line is cut. Mello drops the device, lifts a boot, and crunches it into the ground. Before he can forget the number, Mello runs to a phone booth, using the change he has been given- maybe it was especially for this moment- and punches in the number.

It's ten minutes before midday.

The line rings five times, then is picked up all the way in London, England. Mello drums his gothic painted fingers on the side of the booth, wondering. . . is this a second chance? To catch Kira, or maybe it's more than that. A second chance to- The person on the other end drops the phone, Mello hears the loud thunk and the swear the comes with it, then it's picked up again.

The detective smiles. He isn't out of the game yet.

"Hello? Matt speaking."

* * *

**END**


End file.
